Extrait de la publication… · river flows lazily among hay fields and lush green pastures where cattle come to browse or lie quietly in the shade of giant butternut trees growing

On the Crow and

Other Stories

Robert A. Poirier

From love lost on a canoe trip, clashing values and naked conflict between natives and newcomers, to the barroom and prison enforcer straight out of a Johnny Cash song, Poirier writes vividly about the people and land he loves and inhabits. In five stories and one novella, readers escape the big city, live in the wilds or small tough towns, and experience the chal-lenges of nature and human nature in all their complexities.

“I think I’m going to start carrying a knife. There’re all sorts of crazies out there at night.”

Otto fixed his eyes on Karl’s. His pupils were not the con trac ted black points they were when he overdosed on metha done, or when he had managed to find some good heroin. Now, the pupils of his eyes were large and black as he stared steadily into Karl’s eyes.

“Be sure you’re ready to use it,” he said. “Pull a knife out like that on me, and you’re dead. For people like me, some guy waving a knife in my face just says, I’m going to kill you. So you stick him first. Like that asshole tonight.”

Robert A. Poirier lives on his land near Maniwaki, Quebec, studies Algonquin, and treats all species of fauna at his wild animal rehabilita-tion centre. His first novel was Washika.

isbn 978-1-926824-93-2

www.barakabooks.com

On

the C

row

and O

ther Sto

ries R

ob

ert A. Po

irier

$19.95

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Extrait de la publication

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On the CrowAnd Other Stories

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by the same author

Washika, A Novel

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Montréal

Robert A. Poirier

On the CrowAnd Other Stories

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or trans-mitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includ-ing photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

isbn 978-1-926824-93-2 pbk; 978-1-77186-002-4 epub; 978-1-77186-003-1 pdf; 978-1-77186-004-8 mobi/kindle

Cover by Folio infographieBook design by Folio infographie

© Baraka Books 2013Legal Deposit, 4th quarter 2013

Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du QuébecLibrary and Archives Canada

Published by Baraka Books of Montreal6977, rue LacroixMontréal, Québec h4e 2v4Telephone: 514 [email protected]

Printed and bound in Quebec

Baraka Books acknowledges the generous sup-port of its publishing program from the Société de développement des entreprises cultu relles du Québec (SODEC) and the Canada Council for the Arts.

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada, through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing for our translation activities and through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

Trade Distribution & ReturnsCanada and the United StatesIndependent Publishers Group1-800-888-4741 (IPG1);[email protected]

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Contents

After the Portage 11

Oshkinawe Sled Dog Race 29

The Enforcer 49

On the Crow 65

The Fiat 83

Conflict 97

Oakie and Kimo (novella) 121

Acknowledgements 195

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To Louise and Pete (Christmas 2006 to 2011)

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11

After the Portage

Just below the Mànameg rapids on the Mònz River, set back among ferns growing out from porous

black boulders, is a wooden cross with a lumber-jack’s boot sitting on the grave. Grey lichen covers most of the cross and moss grows up from inside the boot. All along the river saturated logs to watch out for lie just below the surface; these are reminders of another time, when men drowned trying to move timber downriver from lumber camps to saw mills hundreds of miles south. What few towns existed then were several days’ travel by canoe or horse and wagon, and so the victims were simply buried where they fell. Plain wooden crosses mark their graves. Almost every rapid has at least one.

The Mònz is a gentle river for most of its sixty miles. It is a winding river, twisting and turning on itself, its changing shoreline a constant source of wonder for those who travel upon its waters. There are rapids, of course, and many that must be por-taged. It is always a surprise to come upon them, to feel the current carry you forward without effort on

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your part, to hear the rumblings coming at you from downstream. Sometimes a hasty decision is called for: should you continue on, or pull up on shore and portage around the foaming water, rising and fall-ing, its curling white froth flying upwards and over blackened boulders? And then, almost as suddenly, there is calm water below, looking so much like a wind-protected bay if it were not for the roar behind you.

Anyone paddling the Mònz will soon realize that it is a river of change. From one bend in the river to the next, the feeling experienced is never the same. Along its clay banks are the conifers and alders giv-ing way to cedar swamps further on, with tall ferns growing among the rocks along the water’s edge. Here you might find strange-looking carnivorous plants and, between the grey-black boulders, the shockingly beautiful red Cardinal flowers. There are long, sloping beaches of fine sand, from the water line up to plateaus where young trembling aspens whisper in the breeze. Beneath these tall, slender trees, horsetails grow out of the sand like some pre-historic plant life. The sand there is different from that on the beach; the texture is not as fine as beach sand and its colour is a grey-brown, possibly from the aspen leaves decomposing there. Just when you are convinced that you have witnessed all possible combinations, a new shoreline appears just beyond the next bend in the river. The sand shoots upwards abruptly, a vertical wall of compacted sand well over

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13

after the portage

thirty feet in height. There, sparse tufts of grass lean out over the edge. All along its flanks, swallows build their nest holes. Further south along the Mònz, where land was once cleared by early settlers, the river flows lazily among hay fields and lush green pastures where cattle come to browse or lie quietly in the shade of giant butternut trees growing just above the high-water line.

As the canoe came around a bend in the river, the thick alders leaned out over the water and its steep muddy shore and the shoreline changed suddenly to a wall of sand. From the flat water of the river, the bank rose vertically forming a dense wall of com-pacted grey-yellow soil. As they looked upward from the canoe, the young man and the girl could see the weed heads sticking out over the edge. There were nest holes in the sand along the walls. The swallows poked their heads out of the holes to look at them. The birds grew excited and chattered loudly as the canoe moved in closer.

“I’m tired,” the girl said.“Keep paddling,” the man replied. “It’ll pass the

time.”The girl slammed her paddle against the gunwales.

The sound echoed across the water between the two high, sandy banks of the river.

“I don’t want to pass the time!” she screamed. “I want to be home, away from this river, and the bugs, and…”

“And me, right?”

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on the crow

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“Yes.”Here, the only element of change was the river

itself. With every bend in the river came a new sen-sation, an unexpected emotion for anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear. The canoe advanced slowly between the sandy walls and, without any prior warning, no clue whatsoever, the land dropped down; the Mònz was now a narrow, shallow body of water meandering between gently sloping shores of warm yellow sand with deciduous trees standing tall on flat plateaus above.

The man reached forward with his paddle. He traced a wide arc out away from the canoe and its bow obeyed instantly, moving leftward towards the shore.

“What are you doing?” The girl asked. She looked back as she spoke but she did not look at the man.

The man did not answer. He dipped his paddle into the water and, as he pulled back, he angled the blade outward from the stern; the canoe straightened, flow-ing parallel to the shore. There was not much water there. There was barely enough water to keep the canoe’s wooden keel from dragging on the bottom.

“Jean, what are you doing?”The man stepped out of the canoe. He rested the

blade of his paddle against a gunwale to hold the canoe there.

“Get out,” he said.The girl was on her knees at the bow. She crossed

her arms beneath her breasts and stared straight ahead.

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15

after the portage

“No,” she said.The man tossed the paddle into the canoe. He

grabbed the bow with one hand and pulled the canoe up on shore. He reached behind the girl and lifted out a canvas pack.

“Where are you going?”The man did not answer. She watched him walk-

ing up the slope of the beach. His boots slipped in the sand, the long leather laces trailing behind. She could tell that he was angry.

“Jean,” she called after him. “Are we going to be here long?”

There was no answer. She could not see him but she could hear him swinging his axe, the sounds of wood being smashed. He was somewhere beyond the row of aspens. There was a clearing there. She had seen it when they came around the bend, after the high walls and the swallow nests.

The girl stepped out of the canoe. The sand was warm on her bare feet. She removed the life jacket and tossed it into the canoe. She hated the thing. She couldn’t get a tan with it on and her underarms were red from the jacket chafing her arms when she paddled. But, Jean had insisted. She walked on the sand, close to the water. Pieces of smooth, grey drift-wood stuck up out of the sand. The water was shal-low there and she could see the bottom, clearly, all the way to the opposite shore. On the upper slope, where Jean worked with his axe, horsetails grew out of the sand and swayed lazily in the breeze. Beyond

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the horsetails, there was smoke coming from the clearing. She could smell the smoke from where she stood, and hear the wood crackling, and empty pots being jostled. Finally, she decided to go up to the clearing, to see what the man was up to.

As she entered the clearing, she saw the man on his knees with his buttocks resting on his heels. He was adding short lengths of dry spruce to the fire. There were yellow-red flames rising through the matrix of wood he had stacked over a large ball of thin branches and dried grass.

“Here,” he said, tossing the small, blackened pail towards the girl. “Get some water for tea.”

She caught the pail with both hands. She didn’t know why. She dropped the pail to the sand and then looked at her hands; both were covered in soot.

“I don’t want any tea,” she said.“There’s hot chocolate.”“No.”“And I’ve got some of that instant orange drink

powder.”The girl sighed and looked back towards the river.“How about a ham-and-cheese sandwich? You

could toast it over the fire.”“I’m not hungry.”“Okay, what do you say to a nice, thick piece of

lemon meringue pie?”The girl laughed. She turned, facing the river. She

did not want him to see her laughing. Suddenly, she felt his hand on her shoulder.

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17

after the portage

“Half full,” he said, holding the tea pail by its wire handle.

“Oh, all right.”As the girl walked towards the water, she could

hear the man whistling and cutting more wood for the fire. She stepped into the water. Her feet sank in the sandy bottom and the water felt cold on her legs. She rinsed the pail twice, holding it against the current by its handle. She submerged the pail, emptied half, and returned to the man and his fire.

There was a large chunk of driftwood by the fire with a green sapling across it. The thick end of the sapling was anchored in the sand while its point reached out over the fire. The man took the pail from the girl and hung it from the point of the sapling.

He reached into the canvas pack. He lifted out a folded, red-chequered blanket and spread it out on the sand away from the fire. Reaching into the pack again, he brought out the plastic bread bags and two cups and placed them on the blanket.

“This here’s ham and cheese,” he said. He held up one of the bread bags. He pointed to the other bag on the blanket. “That one’s boiled egg with little green onions and mayonnaise.”

The girl did not speak. She sat on the blanket with her legs crossed and her elbows resting on her knees. She stared at the black-and-red squares on the blan ket.

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18

“You can use this,” the man said. He held up a long straight branch with a wide fork at one end. “They’re good toasted.”

She watched him as he placed the sandwich across the forked part of the branch and held it over the fire.

The cover on the pail began to move. He removed the cover. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out a tea bag and dropped it into the pail. He turned the sandwich over on the fork. The bread was toasted a dark brown except for two straight lines where the branches of the fork had been. He watched the water churning in the pail: clear, boiling water, then amber, then golden brown. He lifted the pail from the point of the sapling.

“Tea’s ready,” he said.He placed the pail on the sand, close to the fire.

With a twig he reached into the pail and removed the tea bag, tossing it into the fire. He checked the sandwich; both sides were toasted, and it was hot and burned his fingers, and he juggled it between his hands.

“Here,” he said.The girl held the sandwich between the tips of her

fingers and she blew across it and waited for it to cool.

The man filled both cups with tea and set them aside on the sand next to the blanket. He reached into the bag for another sandwich and began toast-ing it as he had the first.

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19

after the portage

It was a bright sunny day and what few clouds floated by never seemed to come between them and the sun. It was quiet. There was only the sound of the fire, and a breeze in the aspens above them. The man toasted his sandwich. He could feel the heat of the fire on his thighs and his face as he knelt before it. And he listened to the quiet, as men who live alone do. But he was not alone now. He could feel her presence behind him. Things had not gone well upriver earlier that morning. He smiled as he heard her biting into the sandwich.

The man sat down on the blanket, next to the girl. She had finished eating. She sat with her elbows rest-ing on her knees again, staring at the blanket.

“You want another?”The girl shrugged her shoulders. She did not look

up from the blanket.The man touched her knee with the back of his

hand. The girl looked up at him.“Here,” he said. He held a sandwich in the hand

that rested on her knee and the forked branch in the other. “Careful it doesn’t fall in.”

The girl leaned one hand on his shoulder as she got up from the blanket. She knelt in front of the fire. The heat on her bare thighs was unbearable. She moved back on the sand and held the fork and the sandwich at arm’s length over the fire.

After she had finished at the fire, the girl returned to the blanket, sitting cross-legged as she had been before. She slid the sandwich from one hand to the

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20

other, blew across it, and finally, she held it with the tips of her fingers and waited for it to cool. The man looked at her. He looked at her, trying to decide if the time was right. The girl glanced up from her sandwich.

“What?” She said.“Claire, I’m sorry,” he said.The girl looked directly into his eyes and then, as

quickly, turned her attention to the blanket.“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he continued. The girl said nothing. She bit her lower lip and

stared at the blanket. She would cry soon. He knew that. He did not want her to cry.

“Eat up, Claire,” he said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”It was the only way with Claire. It nearly always

worked. If anything can keep her from crying now, he thought, a surprise can. Just the thought of a sur-prise can do it. He looked at her. Her eyes had begun to tear up but she had started to nibble at the sand-wich. The man reached back for the tea and handed her a cup. She took the cup and placed it on her side of the blanket.

“So, what is it?” She said. She looked out towards the river.

“You’ll see. Eat.”The man sat with his knees raised and his arms

across them and he drank tea from his cup. He looked towards the river where eddies swirled with the current, disappearing almost as quickly. It was really his fault, he thought. There had been abso-

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More froM baraka books

Fiction

WashikaRobert A. Poirier

Principals and Other Schoolyard Bullies, Short Stories Nick Fonda

I Hate HockeyFrançois Barcelo

YA fiction

Break Away 1 Jessie on My Mind Sylvain Hotte

Break Away 2 Power Forward Sylvain Hotte

The Adventures of Radisson: Hell Never BurnsHell Never BurnsMartin Fournier

21 Days in OctoberMagali Favre

Nonfiction

Challenging the Mississippi Firebombers, Memories of MississippiJim Dann

The History of Montréal, The Story of a Great North American CityPaul-André Linteau

The Question of Separatism, Quebec and the Struggle over SovereigntyJane Jacobs

America’s Gift, What the World Owes to the Americas and Their First InhabitantsKäthe Roth and Denis Vaugeois

A People’s History of QuebecJacques Lacoursière & Robin Philpot

Roads to Richmond, Portraits of Quebec’s Eastern TownshipsNick Fonda

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On the Crow and

Other Stories

Robert A. Poirier

From love lost on a canoe trip, clashing values and naked conflict between natives and newcomers, to the barroom and prison enforcer straight out of a Johnny Cash song, Poirier writes vividly about the people and land he loves and inhabits. In five stories and one novella, readers escape the big city, live in the wilds or small tough towns, and experience the chal-lenges of nature and human nature in all their complexities.

“I think I’m going to start carrying a knife. There’re all sorts of crazies out there at night.”

Otto fixed his eyes on Karl’s. His pupils were not the con trac ted black points they were when he overdosed on metha done, or when he had managed to find some good heroin. Now, the pupils of his eyes were large and black as he stared steadily into Karl’s eyes.

“Be sure you’re ready to use it,” he said. “Pull a knife out like that on me, and you’re dead. For people like me, some guy waving a knife in my face just says, I’m going to kill you. So you stick him first. Like that asshole tonight.”

Robert A. Poirier lives on his land near Maniwaki, Quebec, studies Algonquin, and treats all species of fauna at his wild animal rehabilita-tion centre. His first novel was Washika.

isbn 978-1-926824-93-2

www.barakabooks.com

On

the C

row

and O

ther Sto

ries R

ob

ert A. Po

irier

$19.95

Crow.couv..indd 1 2013-10-25 11:33


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Extrait de la publication… · river flows lazily among hay fields and lush green pastures where cattle come to browse or lie quietly in the shade of giant butternut trees growing